


Letters From War

by Altenprano



Category: Bandstand - Oberacker/Oberacker & Taylor
Genre: Ambigious timeline, Gen, I'm playing a bit with an idea here, Present Tense, probably post musical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 20:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11744712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: After the war, Donny was given Michael's things to take home to Julia, but all they've been doing for the last year is sitting in the bottom of Donny's closet. When he finally decides to pull it out, Donny can't help but look inside, regardless of whether or not he knows it's wrong to go through his friend's belongings, and what he finds is rather unexpected.





	Letters From War

Donny knows that what he’s doing is wrong.

 

There’s no reason for him to be going through the box of Michael’s things that he ended up with after his friend died in the Pacific. It’s Michael’s footlocker, Michael’s private property. It doesn’t matter that he’s dead, because that doesn’t change the fact that Donny has no reason to be going through his friend’s private things. His respect for Michael will always be too great, that he cannot bear the thought of taking anything from the dead man.

 

And still, he sits on the floor of his bedroom, the footlocker open in front of him, items perfectly arranged so that everything fits.

 

He should not be doing this.

 

He should close the box and bring it to Julia, because that’s what Michael would have wanted him to do—right? Michael’s wife deserves to have every shred of her husband that she can get her hands on. Especially with Michael’s body buried so far away from Cleveland that visiting the grave is a near impossibility, Julia deserves her husband’s “personal affects,” as the Army would call them. They belong to her, and only her now, not Donny.

 

“Screw this,” Donny mutters, and reaches for the first item that catches his eye.

 

It’s a paperback book—it’s by Hemmingway, Donny’s sure—in near-perfect condition, despite having been taken straight into hell. Donny remembers seeing Michael with it, reading during the few quiet moments that there were during the war. He knows there’s another book, one more beat up and dog-eared than the pristine copy of _Farewell to Arms_ , and he takes that out too, not bothering to look at the title.

 

Underneath the two paperbacks is a notebook that Donny knows very well. It’s the notebook he and Michael would huddle around and pass the time by coming up with tunes and lyrics together. They’d joke about starting a band some day, when this was over. The plan had always been for Donny and Michael to play piano, while Michael’s wife Julia would sing.

 

Julia.

 

There’s four photographs featuring Michael’s young wife, Julia, and Donny catches himself staring much longer than he should. He knows the story behind each and every photograph.

 

There’s Julia and her mother in the kitchen with alongside a cake that hasn’t yet been iced; Julia’s expression is caught somewhere between guilt and laughter, because Michael caught them in the act of setting up a surprise party for his birthday. There’s Julia in her wedding dress, looking up at Michael while he looks down at her, his beautiful bride. The wedding photo is mirrored in another photo of the couple, only this time, Michael wears his uniform and Julia wears an ordinary dress. It had been Julia’s idea to take the picture, Michael always said, because she wanted a photo of her with her husband, decked out in his uniform (not really, but Michael said he never questioned it), before he shipped out.

 

The last photograph of Julia shows her sitting on a hill. She’s watching the photographer, lips parted in a smile that perhaps became a laugh seconds later. Donny knows it’s from their honeymoon to Erie, PA, where they visited Presque Isle State Park for a couple of days, and he knows that it’s Michael taking the photograph. Even if he didn’t know who took the photograph, he could’ve guessed from Julia’s expression that it was her husband behind the lens—she’s never smiled like that for anyone else.

 

Everything else in the box is the usual stuff you’d find in a soldier’s footlocker. There’s button polish, a couple of handkerchiefs, a couple of spare socks, comb, a tin of asprin, a FM 21-100 soldier’s manual, and a flashlight. Donny knows there are things missing, like Michael’s rosary, his carton of cigarettes, and the lighter that usually accompanied them. The missing items, Donny knows for a fact, are buried with Michael in Manila.

 

He goes through everything methodically, familiar with what should be there, and what is considered contraband (though did anyone really care?). He recognizes everything until he comes to a stack of folded paper wrapped in what feels like some sort of waxed paper, no doubt to protect the precious contents from the weather.

 

Without a thought (what harm will it do?), Donny unwraps the paper and selects a folded paper from the stack, making sure to split it so he can put it back when he’s done. He’s careful in opening it up, because what if he tears the paper, or does something else to damage Michael’s property?

 

He opens the letter, and he swears he feels his heart stop.

 

The handwriting is familiar—careful, like Michael’s, but distinctly female—and as he races through the text, he can almost hear the voice of the sweet girl behind the words. He wants to cry, hell, he almost does, but he bites it back.

 

_Michael—_

_I’m glad to hear you’re safe. We don’t hear a lot on the radio, but Mama says she’s seen some of the boys who got sent home and can only conclude that this war is a terrible, terrible thing. I know we had no choice after Pearl Harbor, and I know you’re doing the right thing, going to fight, but part of me wishes this never happened._

_Still, I’m proud of you, and I’m glad to know you’re safe. I thought you should know (or maybe you already know) that I’ve been praying every day for you and your friends, especially Donny, because he sounds like he needs it. Mama prays too._

_There isn’t much going on here in Cleveland, especially since so many husbands and sweethearts are away. Weather’s as it always is this time of year, which means we’ll be done with all this snow by next week, though you know I don’t mind it that much. I just miss you, and it isn’t the same without you._

_I know it’s too much to ask, but please, hurry home. I miss you dearly and I want to finally settle down and start a family, just like we’ve always talked about doing. We can have that lovely house down the street, or we can start with an apartment—I’ll leave that up to you. Maybe you and Donny can start a band, like you said you want to, and we can have him over for dinner now and again (I’ll make a roast and deviled eggs like Mama does when you come over)._

_Come home safe, please._

_Yours forever,_

_Julia_

Now, more than before, Donny feels like he is trespassing. He has no right to be here, no right to go through his friend’s things, let alone his letters from his wife. What is he doing? What will Julia say if she finds out? Donny can imagine that Michael’s ready to beat the shit out of him for going through his things, or for loving his widow and completely forgetting any and all promises that they might have made.

 

“Okay, okay,” he says, putting the letter back in place and stacking them all neatly together, careful to fold the wax paper exactly how it was before he places it back in the footlocker.

 

He barely even has to think as he replaces everything else, doing his best to restore the order that Michael had created out of the chaos of his possessions. As soon as Farewell to Arms is back in place on top, neatly stacked with everything so not a bit of space is wasted, Donny practically slams the footlocker shut.

 

He makes a promise to himself (and to Michael), that he’ll bring the footlocker to rehearsal tomorrow night, and give it to Julia then. Until tomorrow night, however, he is resolved to put the box up on a high shelf, so he will not be tempted to open it and go through each and every letter that Julia wrote to Michael while he was away. He knows if he is allowed to, he’ll do just that, and not give a rat’s ass about the consequences.

 

 


End file.
